Highway to Hell
by Alaskan Olive
Summary: G1: The Stunticons have individual encounters on one of America's most haunted roads.
1. The Devil's Rejects

**_A/N:_** This story was put up about a year ago; following my tradition to put up a horror story every Halloween.

However this got accidently erased when I was going through the stories that I was no longer intrested in continuing. I found the rough drafts on my computer and finally got the two chapters edited and reposted. I will continue to write this one and I'm sorry for any inconvience to the folks that were following it before :( I'm sorry!

* * *

**_HIGHWAY TO HELL_**

**Part 1**

**"The Devil's Rejects"**

* * *

The wheels of the yellow 2000 Volkswagen beetle pounded the untamed road, subtly bouncing the vehicle every which direction as if the very road was trying to send the driver into the trees. However the young priest that drove the buggy remained completely content and screamed at the top of his lungs to the demonic baritones of Rammstein's_ Feuer frei!_

He thrashed his head from side to side, flinging his imaginary rock 'n' roll hair as his cheap metallic crucifix swayed across his slim chest at the same time.

Most drivers would have been concerned about Clinton Road— especially the locals that believed in the folklore about the haunted road and it's permanent travelers— but Jackson Miller wasn't a local and he wasn't _most_ _drivers_.

He liked the dark; he was a nerdy horror junkie who was enjoying the absence of streetlights in the isolated and dense wooded area, his headlights the only source of light to find the curves of the supposedly haunted road. Jackson's eyes continually stabbed the dark, looking anxiously for the rumored nightly travelers forever forced to walk the road.

His hand went to the volume, his Ipod changing to Creedence Clearwater Revival's _'Bad Moon Rising',_ and raised the volume to match the damage that German metal could deliver to his eardrums. Right now, he was having the time of his life— it was the best time he had by himself since he could remember.

Halloween night always passed uneventful for him and his aging hormones didn't like the repetitive loneliness. He spent them on the couch watching his traditional Halloween movies (Halloween, The Thing, Prince of Darkness— John Carpenter galore, baby!) and passed candy to eager little people whenever they showed up in their costumes. He would love to be a kid again, just so he would have something to do. Being an adult was so boring.

However this year would be different.

He was a new resident to the New Jersey area, he moved in about two years ago to West Milford—expecting to make a new life, live on his own, and get some friends, maybe even one that was a girl he could invite to his place for a nightly romp. Instead all he got was a lousy mobile home, a pile of bills, and an aggravating job at a convenience store accompanied by lonely nights and weekends watching his Outer Limits DVDs.

He didn't want to repeat the first year and wanted to do something different for Halloween— his favorite holiday of the year, even more than Christmas. He smiled; he loved Halloween; the day of the year when the barrier between the living and the dead would be thinnest— and what better way to spend it than legend tripping. He loved ghosts but had never seen one— one of his coworkers had which got him naturally curious about them when they started discussing Clinton.

He smiled, his green eyes gleaming from behind his 50's replica nerd glasses (he was a sucker for nostalgia). He began to sing along with Creedence—feeling exhilarated. He was finally going to find a ghost! Something he had been searching for most of his life. He was going to get a scare— a_ real _scare. _Sorry Carpenter, you're good but I need something with a little less cheesy 80's theme music._

Jackson glanced up in his rear-view mirror. Annoying headlights stabbed his pupils, making him squint in reaction. The bumpy and narrow road was definitely not designed for comfortable passing. The road reminded him of the Himalayas' Freefall Highway; a dangerous ten foot wide mountain road with a 1000 foot drop. The only deadly drop was Dead Man's Curve but the road was still as treacherous nonetheless.

The driver behind swerved behind him, trying to get around him. Jackson smiled and moved to block him, enjoying being the asshole for once in his life. His confidence was up on this night and for once it was nice to be the bully.

A horn blared behind him.

Jackson rolled his eyes and moved over in his lane, his tires grinding the dirt and allowing the driver behind him to pass by comfortably in the opposite lane.

Jackson glanced over at the white Ford Bronco that passed by him, his smile dropping into a frown when he saw the unlady-like finger Cleopatra was giving him and the irate glare the Tarzan flashed him with, dressed for Halloween and probably going to a _super-duper_ party. He was dressed up but for a more technical reason; he was using it to provoke the ghosts, a little idea he got from _Ghost Adventures_.

The Bronco switched gears, revved it's engine and gunned off, going faster than what was recommended for Clinton Road's unexpected turns. A sudden thought occurred to Jackson, immediately making him forget about the jerks.

Dead Man's Curve! That's where _Weird NJ_ said that the awesome Phantom Truck appeared and knocked drivers off the road—trying to kill them.

As interesting as it was he hoped he didn't see it. It was a little too scary for his taste— he wanted to be scared yes, but he didn't want to be in the way of a murderous ghost. He liked being alive, thank you.

Nope, but he was looking forward to any ghosts that came his way. Tonight, he was an enthusiastic Bill Murray, searching for a ghost to slime him.

* * *

No ghost, but he did eventually find something that puzzled and terrified him even more.

After a mile of pitch blackness and claustrophobic wilderness, he came across something he wasn't too enthusiastic about finding.

The Bronco that passed him had been smashed to bits. The rusty undercarriage and clean, white exterior of the Bronco was reduced to mere shrapnel that scattered all over the road, looking as if a locomotive had plowed it into oblivion.

He ran a shaky palm over his greasy blonde hair and down the back of his neck, his skin collecting a few drops of sweat, chilled from night. His green eyes looked to the trees, trying to locate the two passengers that were missing from the scene.

His sleuthing efforts turned up short of evidence.

There was nothing; as if the two had vanished into thin air. _Were__** they**__ ghosts?_

No, if they were there wouldn't be any parts scattered everywhere.

Jackson, a twinge of fear coursing through his veins, began clearing a path, removing scraps of metal out of the way so his yellow bug could pass.

Confusion ran through his mind as he moved back and forth between the beams of his headlights, the noise of chirping bugs drowning out his car's engine. He wasn't sure if he should call the cops or not; be a good Samaritan and all that.

He decided he should at least look for the folks; see if they took off down the road looking for help.

He finished by moving the mangled door out of the way, the metal door scratching loudly against the worn asphalt. Jackson grunted and put it in the ditch, a rip catching his attention.

He looked down at his priest robes, a fresh cut by the ankles making him roll his eyes bitterly. However it was unimportant...

Another noise caught his immediate attention.

Loud crunching cut through the night and right through him. It was a tremendous and abnormal snapping of limbs for it to be a simple person taking an excursion through the woods.

He ran a hand through his hair, his dull nails scratching his scalp. He took a step back, the crunching growing louder with each second. Jackson finally reached the obvious conclusion.

Something was coming towards him— something big.

Jackson, feeling disastrously uncomfortable, rounded the hood of his car and opened the driver's seat. He sat in the seat and put the shifter in first gear. He pressed the clutch, his suffocating nervousness dooming him.

He released the clutch too soon and killed the engine— lurching the Volkswagen violently.

"Shit!"

Jackson immediately slammed on the clutch again and turned on the engine, it started and a small shred of relief flooded him… until he glanced over to his right.

Within the trees, punching through the darkness were twin sets of giant purple eyes glaring at him.

Violent images of Santanic rituals ran through his mind; he knew the road was infamous for witch craft, KKK and followers of the Anti-Christ groups to gather in the woods and that was the only thing his brain could associate with. Now he was _really_ regretting dressing up like a priest.

His car stalled again much to his dismay. _Goddamn it Bumblebee now's not the best time!_

He sat there in shock, his body numb and his jaw dropping open. Only when they began to approach closer did he panic, start his car and push the clutch.

He slammed on the gas and shifted as fast as he could, the engine groaning in pain from his bad synchronization. He drove off and didn't get more than a couple of meters or so when something came running out of the woods.

Cleopatra covered in blood.

He slammed on the breaks, the car missing her by inches. Her face was distraught with absolute panic; she gripped the car and maneuvered around the passenger side. Bloody hand prints painted the outside of his window before she grabbed the handle and climbed in.

"Go fuckin' go!" she cried, her panic stricken eyes whipping around to look behind her.

He couldn't resist taking a glance back himself.

He wish he didn't…

Demons emerged from the trees, demons he recognized.

Decepticons… Jackson immediately would have preferred the Satanists instead.

They smirked devilishly in his direction… an expression of pure evil making their optics flash brightly.

Jackson remembered something that immediately sent horror through his body. He had a bumper sticker that read_ 'My other _('other' X-out with a sharpie)_ car is an Autobot'_ and right next to the text was the red symbol that was nowhere near to helping his situation.

_Great. The Autobots will be the death of me!_

The yellow and the red Decepticon turned and gave each other a grin.

_Oh, my God…_

"What the hell is wrong with you? Go!" she shrieked, her scream killing his eardrums like a concert speaker.

Suddenly the cars transformed, one into a red and black Ferrari and the other into a yellow dragster. The stereo system in the Ferrari came alive with the strumming of an acoustic guitar and an elderly voice echoing through the windows saying: _"Hey we all know how we're gonna die! We're gonna crash and burn..."_

Fear and realization went through him. _Rob Zombie's Sick Bubblegum. Awesome song— just not right now._

Just as he gunned it, they gave chase after the inferior Volkswagen. Jackson knew before he gunned his own car and there that they were absolutely fucked.

In mere seconds they caught up to him and immediately began nudging his bumper, jerking the woman and driver forward.

They taunted him, slowing the bug down so they could play with him as if he was a Hot Wheel.

The Ferrari came around to Jackson's side, _Sick Bubblegum_ pounding heavily in his ears.

"Hey fleshie! You wanna play yo-yo?" he cackled with a harsh Texan voice. "And guess what _you_ get to be the yo-yo! Ha Ha Ha!"

Suddenly the yellow drag racer maneuvered around the passenger side and hit him. Cleopatra shrieked again when he did it a second time and shattered the passenger side window.

The Volkswagen swerved the left and was caught by the Ferrari who sped up to meet the drag racer's pass. Jackson's eyes couldn't help but fall upon the driver's seat of the Ferrari… and that the wheel was steering itself.

The Ferrari cackled loudly and rammed itself into Jackson's bug, giving the vehicle another dent to match the passenger's mangled side.

"BRAKE!" she screamed.

He obeyed but it did them little good.

The Ferrari cleverly flipped itself around and placed itself vertically across Jackson's front bumper.

They flung forward from the impact and just as they were beginning to recover they found themselves bolted backwards when the drag racer positioned itself in front of him—hood to hood. Trapping them.

The dragster's voice boomed to life and called out to his friend in their chirpy computerized language. The Ferrari cackled and relayed back. An uncomfortable feeling went up Jackson's spine... _shit, this is going to be bad..._

The drag racer roared to life and began moving forward— crushing the car like a beer can.

They did the most rational thing they could do after a few panicked screams; they opened the car doors and bailed out, taking off into the woods on their sides of the road.

As soon as his feet crunched the grass and snapped twigs, he heard the mechanical grinding and electronic scratching. They were in humanoid mode.

Jackson's legs pumped with adrenaline as he glanced back, his car destroyed and the two giant robots giving chase, the Ferrari going after Cleopatra and the drag racer coming after him.

He swiped at the sharp camouflaged branches that came after him from the dark. Cutting his clothes and face like angry knives.

A huge snap sounded behind him, signaling that the Con had entered the woods.

Echoes came to his ears in every direction, all the nocturnal sounds conglomerating together and confusing him. He had no idea which direction he was going in but as long as he could hear the gigantic crunching behind him, he was away from death which is all what mattered.

Like a horror cliché he tripped and collapsed to the ground, his body hitting sharp branches, wet leaves and hard rocks, making him groan in pain. Immediately he sat up and untangled himself, his ankle throbbing.

Limping in desperation he sped up when he heard a scream— a female scream which started off strong and then abruptly cut off. Jackson registered it as only one thing.

Cleopatra was caught. He would _not _be next.

He limped faster, his lungs threatening to explode but ignored them when he heard the Decepticon's chilling voice close by.

"Ah come on fleshie I don't bite… but I do have a _killer_ hand shake!" He laughed with amusement.

Finally, he couldn't go on any longer.

He coughed and gasped as he fell and pathetically hid himself behind a tree; the cold air hitting his lungs like needles and began to ache. He waited, silence eerily setting in.

He wish he could still hear him, it would at least give him reassurance that he was away from it. His bottom lip quivered in fear.

He heard the mechanical being talk in a flustered pattern behind him, sounding as if he was in a heated argument.

Jackson pressed his back into the spinney tree; letting some of the small branches prod his skin… he couldn't believe how close to him he was.

Then something unexpected happened.

The Decepticon left.

He didn't know if it truly was divine intervention or if he was just a lucky son of a bitch, but nevertheless he thanked God.

* * *

His costume was probably the feeblest source of warmth he ever owned; he was starting to feel the consequences of not bringing a jacket as his body shivered. It took him nearly a half an hour to find the road again—but no way in hell would he step foot on it.

He stumbled in the woods next to the road, the trees concealing him and providing him cover from the Cons that were still probably still lurking somewhere on Clinton Road.

He wiped his nose, the liquids drying on his sleeve. He stopped crying a half an hour ago and was finally feeling his nerves settle despite feeling the overpowering after-effects.

He could already feel the weight of the world collapsing on him, making his legs grow more tired with each awkward and unstable step over the forest foliage.

He knew that as long as he was on Clinton Road, his ordeal would not be over.

And he was right and stopped dead in his tracks. An invisible pressure traveled over his body, numbing to the core.

_Where the hell did he come from?_

About fifty feet in front of him, through the trees shone purple eyes, seemingly oblivious to him—and Jackson would keep it that way.

He stayed still, thinking that any sudden movement would draw the Con's attention to him; besides fear wouldn't let him move even if he wanted to. His chest heaved, short and panicked breaths escaping.

The purple eyes suddenly fell in his direction. Jackson collapsed to the ground, horror pinning him there like an invisible antagonist. His eyes began to wet, his lips quivering as he eyes closed—knowing the inevitable was coming.

_God please no…_

He waited for eternal seconds before a noise sealed his fate.

The Decepticon screamed in fear.

Jackson opened his eyes—his jaw instantly dropped.

The Decepticon fled through the trees, transformed and hit the road—kicking up dirt, burning rubber and leaving it's stench behind for Jackson.

Jackson stood in utter shock—confused out of his mind; not a single, solid explanation coming to him.

Was that Decepticon… _afraid_ of him? _What the hell?_ _Was he the only weird Decepticon that was scared of humans or something? A Decepticon that__** ran**__ from humans instead of squishing them like bugs?_

Jackson shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. He felt his eyes start to leak again and quickly wiped them, feeling like the victim of a terrible prank.

A sudden pang of anger started to run through his veins, making him scoff slightly. Maybe it was a different Decepticon, one that thought he wasn't worth the time. Maybe he just wanted to mess with him.

_So instead of killing him the Decepticon just fucked with me? Great. Maybe that was what the other two were doing before—some sort of sick twisted freakin' mind game. _

Jackson caught himself. If it was a game, what happened to Cleopatra? Was she walking in the woods too? Trying to stay hidden until she got to the end of the ten mile road?

He allowed a boyish smirk to cross his face. Hey maybe if they both got out alive, they could go out. After all they both shared something—they both were attacked by giant freakin' robots.

A scowl set in as he walked, remembering the other human on the road that was missing-in-action. Tarzan. What happened to him?

An uncomfortable wave of guilt and nervousness washed through him. Cleopatra was covered in blood… _Tarzan's _blood.

He sighed, feeling somewhat disgusted with himself. Poor gal, she probably watched him get blown to bits or something and here he was thinking about picking her up.

_Nice Jackson. And I'm dressed as a priest—that's good. Good thinking, you stupid ass. 'Hey sorry about your boyfriend—you wanna go out?' Smooth man, very smooth…_

Jackson let his eyes travel across the road and to the other side, a small, sad smile tugging at the side of his mouth. _Hope she's okay..._

* * *

He knew by reading about Clinton Road that _Dead Man's Curve _was the deadliest spot on the entire stretch, but more importantly (since he didn't have a car anymore) that it was also the third mile marker.

_Goddamn it, I've been going in the wrong direction!_

He approached the concrete slabs that bordered on the edges of the bridge, graffiti covering it. This spot was infamous because for cars crashing to their doom; unlucky drivers who couldn't register quickly enough to turn and avoid driving off the bridge—hence the concrete barriers.

His eyes narrowed in confusion…

Huh… he didn't recall seeing any picture of a gigantic destroyed section of the barriers from Google Images. He looked from left to right, not liking the vibe that the bridge was giving off. disinterested in sticking around to see if there was a ghost kid by the bridge.

Hastily, he turned around and headed back the direction he came, disinterested in sticking around to see if there was a ghost kid by the bridge.

_Well at least I know which way I'm going. _

Jackson decided he would keep on the road until he found unsafe for him again— or until the Cons returned.

After what he guessed was another mile of walking he had to stop. His legs burned and ached, his ankle was also getting worse and worse with every limp.

He knew that there had to be a considerable amount of cuts on his calves and thighs by now from bushwhacking in the pitch dark, an outdoor activity he would not recommend. However he knew he, couldn't stop until he was off of the road.

He rolled forward and placed his hands on his knees, stretching his back. He was starting to get used to the cold but it didn't make things any better. He was tired, emotionally exhausted and above all petrified. Ghosts were the farthest thing from his mind—all he cared about were the robots still lurking and trying to find him.

His breath caught in his throat and stopped dead in his tracks.

Panic started to set in again.

Behind him he could make out the sound of loud, grinding and powerful engine distorted by the distance but growing clearer and clearer by the second.

Jackson registered it as only one thing.

Suddenly the road illuminated in front of him and he could see his shadow painted on the grey asphalt in front of him.

He breathed heavily, the noise now deafening and recognizable.

He whirled around and met the grill of large semi-truck.

Darkness.

* * *

He wished that whatever truck that had supposedly run him over did the job. He woke up, groggily and in pain, a goose egg on the back of his head and looked up…

Light burned his retinas and he instantly shut them. He groaned and rolled his head to the side.

A voice called out to him, "Oh you're up. Good! I found you in the road and I'm taking you to the nearest medical clinic. Your safe, just lay back and let me do the driving…"

Jackson couldn't argue and leaned his head back, letting drowsiness consume him. As he was beginning to pass out, he leaned his head back to see his savior.

However sleep smothered him and he fell into it. Although he could have sworn he didn't see anyone driving…


	2. Satanic Shadows

_**HIGHWAY TO HELL**_

**Part 2**

**"Satanic Shadows"**

* * *

The moment his wheels made contact with the unmaintained asphalt he knew he hated the road. Not only did it rise, bounce and curve uncomfortably with his frame, the entire road was flanked by towering ancient wood that hid comfortably in the shadows. The road was also narrowed which he never did like. He liked open and bleak, and he certainly didn't like the pitch dark. Even with his superior lights, the road still held heavy veal of blackness. It was unnerving not being able to see anything— he hated it— he never knew if there was someone watching or if it was just his paranoia getting to him.

For now, all he tried to do was stay focused on Motormaster's trailer in front of him and the Autobots they were supposed to be looking for. Ramjet said he spotted a couple of them on the road while he was doing patrols and since this junction led to the power plant, Megatron sent them to go crush them. They were somewhere... he didn't know how many or where (which was most important)... but they were somewhere...

At least Dead End was with them. Albeit Dead End wasn't the most enthusiastic of the bunch, Dead End didn't beat on him or force him to watch human movie he didn't want to watch (which was the main reason he didn't not like this time of the human annual cycle. _Jelloween_, or something like that). Dead End may not have been the funfest, but he in a way respected him like Dead End always respected everything he saw; always with a deep and somber indifference— just as long as he didn't pick on him that was all he cared about.

Speaking of which he was glad that Dragstrip and Wildrider were on the other side of the road— the plan to trap the Autobots from both sides of the linear road— because they usually used this season to pick on him.

Dragstrip and Wildrider, who loved the blood and gore from the seasonal movies, always made him watch much to his dismay. They said they were just trying to help Breakdown by using misguided therapy called _'scaring the paranoia and fear out of him' _but they just made it worse—much worse.

The last movie they watched was something called the _The Blair Itch Project_ and he couldn't help but be reminded of it by the woods the humans lost the map in… he hoped his locating systems didn't glitch.

Breakdown unknowingly crept closer to the back of his trailer bed, engulfed in his own thoughts and oblivious to his closeness until he hit the back of Motormaster's trailer.

**((Get off my fraggin' tailgate, Breakdown!))** roared the irritated Stunticon leader.

**((SORRY!)) **Breakdown quipped back, fearing the possibility of lots and lots of pain.

**((Not yet you're not!))**

**((Relax; it was a simple mistake which I'm sure Breakdown will not be doing it again.)) **Dead End droned with an indifferent tone from the back of the line.

**((Yeah! I won't make anymore mistakes— I promise!))**

_KABOOSH!_

Breakdown swerved hazardly from one side of the road the other, the rubber on his left rear tire peeling off the rims like chewed up banana peels.

Breakdown twisted around, barely missing Dead End who braked hard to avoid him, and entered a world of swirling darkness and headlights— his equilibrium thrown off.

He rolled several times until everything went still and painful.

Breakdown transformed, his metal sore and little dented in some parts— he couldn't tell, everything was in a discombobulated panic. _He made a mistake!_

Motormaster and Dead End transformed and walked over, Dead End's expression monotone but ready to aid him, Motormaster on the other hand looking ready to hurt him.

Breakdown looked down at his tire— now flat from whatever he had rolled over (or perhaps, it was his own doing). Whenever he got too nervous, something snapped or broke. Breakdown tried to stand— pain shooting up all the way his left leg. He grimaced but managed to get to his feet.

Dead End came to his side, "Are you alright?"

"No," Breakdown said. "My leg hurts."

Motormaster narrowed his optics, his demeanor one of pure discontent.

Breakdown grimaced, "I can transform! Everything's ok."

The comms. beeped.

**((Ramjet to Motormaster. I have a visual on two Autobots north of your position. Looks like Bumblebee and Trailblazer and I think I saw your buddy Prime a few astro seconds ago.))**

A malevolent gleam brightened Motormaster's optics. **((We're on our way. Motormaster out.))**

Dead End turned to his leader after carefully evaluating Breakdown's tire. He would be of no use if Breakdown didn't have his tire replaced and he knew that Breakdown wouldn't want to change it alone in the dark. "We'll catch up shortly and we'll be sure to do away with them if they pass this way."

Motormaster stared at them shortly, as if debating wither to either hit or blast them.

Motormaster grudgingly allowed them to stay behind— with the promise of vengeance to give Prime back what he justly deserves, well... it was little he had to debate about. He wanted to hit Prime more than his teammates.

**((Dragstrip, Wildrider you have work to do.))**

Motormaster transformed. "Get it done quickly!" he ordered before he drove off, his outline fading into the darkness the deeper he went until Breakdown and Dead End were left with nothing but the glow of their own headlights.

Breakdown usually would have felt relief from Motormaster's lack of presence and that he managed to dodge a plasma shot, but oddly enough he couldn't get comfortable. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it had something to do with the scenery he was in.

"Hey Dead End, do ghosts exist?"

Dead End, who was in midway through removing Breakdown's slagged tire stopped and glanced up at him, confusion on his face plates. "I beg your pardon?"

Breakdown felt the slight pressure of embarrassment course through him, "You know… ghosts. You think that stuff exists?"

Dead End quirked a metallic brow and resumed his work, speaking to Breakdown as if a professor on the subject. "If there is such a thing as life after death, it is served as merely a waiting room; a sick perverse torture method until we are eventually and absolutely evaporated from existence. However, that paranormal nonsense is reserved for religious texts and as a comfort for mechs who cannot handle that they are going to die. So, no. There are no such things as ghosts."

"But if they were? Like you said first, could they you know… hurt you?"

"They don't exist, Breakdown"

Breakdown frowned with embarrassed disappointment. "So they stuff in human movies is not real?"

Dead End placed the tire into the empty slot and then looked up. "Is that where this dreadful conversation is coming from?"

"No," Breakdown lied.

Dead End sighed. "Have you been watching those seasonal movies with Dragstrip and Wildrider, again?"

"No."

"Let me remind you—once again— that those movies are fictional," Dead End tiredly reassured.

"The Blair Bitch Project looked very real," Breakdown debated.

Dead End rolled his optics, doubting that was the true name of the movie. "It is nothing but a scare tactic."

"But—"

"Nothing more."

"But."

"_No_."

Breakdown flinched when Dead End finished with his tire and stood up. "Give that a try."

Breakdown stood up and gave his leg a small shake, as if that would be an appropriate method to rid him of the small but annoying amount of pain.

"Better," Breakdown shrugged.

"Good, let's rejoin the group before Motormaster becomes upset. I'm not in the mood for his temper today, which is especially foul tonight."

With that they both transformed, a sharp but brief pain shot up his struts and through his axel when his tire hit the pavement, but he suppressed it and followed Dead End, trying to let his morose partner's words seep into his stubborn and paranoid processor and forget about ghosts.

It helped for a little bit…

* * *

They were the only thing living on the road for many miles until they came across Dead Man's Curve and what lay at the bottom of the bridge. They stopped out of curiosity to investigate and found an unusual sight.

Motormaster lay at the bottom of the bridge, his alt mode lying in between a pile of unfortunate rusted and demolished cars that weren't as lucky as Motormaster. But unlike Motormaster, their hoods were not wedged into the dirt with a large semi-trailer sticking out like a fox sticking his head in a rabbit's hole.

Dead End let out an aggravated and boring sigh, as if he had been assigned heavy work at the last minute, and activated his comm.

**((Motormaster, are you online?))**

No answer.

**((Motormaster?))**

Dead End sighed and transformed, as did Breakdown. Slowly Dead End made his way down, his feet crunching metal and breaking glass when he jumped over the barriers and onto an old blue mustang.

Breakdown watched from the afar, a shred of nervousness for his leader going for his systems. He had never known Motormaster to offline from a crash— even when suffered the damage Optimus Prime had given him during the head on collision. Motormaster was tough— so what did this to him?

A horn blared behind him and he whirled around, nearly failing to his aft.

A yellow vehicle gave him the rear and roared off into the dark. Breakdown panicked. _Autobot! What should he do?_

Breakdown turned to Dead End, the only other one that could give him instruction. Dead End locked optics with him, his expression stern and said: "What are you waiting for?" With that Dead End turned back to aiding Motormaster.

Breakdown inhaled before taking his orders and transformed, heading down into darkness in search of the car.

* * *

Twenty minutes and fifty-six seconds were wasted in search of a car that seemed unexplainably difficult to keep up with— and find for that matter!

There was nothing but trees… a lot and a lot of trees, staring at them with their useable eyes. He could almost imagine their silent discussion between each other, probably contemplating throwing apples and snickering like they did in that movie about the yellow brick road. Ever since the Wizard of Oz—and Poltergeist, which worsened his dendrophobia—he had been weary of was just something unnatural about them, especially the twisted branches of lifelessness that seemed almost eager to snatch him out of the road, and carry him to their secret tree lair and do unspeakable tree tortures to him.

He gave up, he couldn't take it anymore. He knew that Dragstrip and Wildrider were ahead of him and maybe they knew of the mysterious Autobot's whereabouts.

**((Breakdown to Dragstrip. Come in.))**

There was a pause, an uncomfortable and lingering pause, until Dragstrip barked over the radio— sounding pestered. **((What Breakdown? What?))**

**((Um, have you seen an Autobot come your way?))**

**((What? No. We thought we, ah, crashed into Trailbreaker but no it was just some fleshies— speaking of fleshies, looks like we gotta new contestant! Gotta go Breakdown!))**

**((Wait, what?))**

But Dragstrip never answered; instead he was left alone with silence, and the overwhelming darkness that rendered his headlights useless. But he wasn't alone for long…

The backseats of his cab suddenly grew heavy, light heaviness, but still not normal; as if someone was gently pressing down his seat. As far as he knew, there was nobody but him.

He adjusted his mirror and scanned the back seat, looking for the source. He could find nothing in the back seat but the pressure remained all he could see was the top of the seats and out the back window. He panned his mirror down to get a better look.

He screeched to a halt when he saw what was making the pressure.

A little human boy… a very angry little boy.

He stared at him, his eyes cold and void like black holes holding more intensity than Motormaster on a good day. Breakdown's fuel froze and he braked hard. His tires screeched across the road and shifted him horizontally in the middle.

He focused his mirror on the kid, who continued to stare at him with the utmost ferocity. Breakdown couldn't process the questions that were running through his processor fast enough: Who was he? Where did he come from? What did he want? How do human's teleport?

Seconds ticked like minutes and minutes transformed into hours. Both of them just sitting there; silent and waiting for the other to make the first move.

He took the time to take in the full appearance of the boy: he guessed a boy of African-American descent around six earth cycles, his clothes were outdated judging by what he saw in human movies— he was able to date them to the 1950 A.D.

Without warning the boy suddenly bucked and screamed, hitting the back of his seat with his tennis shoes and violently pounding his fists into the upholstery. Breakdown was shocked; he wasn't sure what to do with the psychotic human.

He felt another presence on his driver side but he did not see anything. He felt the kid being pulled across the seat and whatever force that was dragging him caused him to panic more.

"No!" the boy shrieked, fighting for all his worth. "Lemme go devil!"

Breakdown's fuel lines froze, with a last and sudden shriek from the boy Breakdown witnessed something that would make Dead End question his own sanity— the boy went through his door as if he was air.

Breakdown transformed quickly, in no way interested in rescuing the child but wanting to satisfy his curiosity and try and organize his thoughts.

However, transforming only heightened his confusion, because he could not find a soul in sight. The boy was gone and whatever force that had grabbed him remained invisible. Once again found himself alone on the road.

He didn't have a lot of questions; he only had one main question he wanted answered.

Did that just happen? Was it all... _real_? Or was it some hallucination from his processor, contaminated from watching those horror movies.

Nevertheless, he knew that an experience like this without an explanation would haunt him till the day Dead End say they would rust—it was the only reason he set off into the woods to find the human and what had happened to him. Like Dead End told him there had to be a rational answer… he just wanted to double-check.

His optics brightness increased as he stepped off the antique pavement and into the woods, his footsteps crunching the ground and the spiny branches of the trees scratching audibly against his chassis and arms.

Doubts in both the situation and himself ran through his processor and his body like vicious snakes, beginning to make him feel stupid. Why was he doing this? What did he care about a human for? For what? _Clarification_? He could hear Dead End's words in his processor. _This is a waste of time… ghosts do not exist…_

However, his feet continued to move him deeper into the woods— guiding him unconsciously and he had no choioce but to let them lead him. Almost wanting something unexpected to happen, but dreading it as well.

He spun around, twisting and snapping wood.

He greeted nothing.

Just trees, the same darkness and no answered questions.

Breakdown vented, his optics continuingly scanning for something—anything; anything that would give him an indication that he wasn't just being paranoid, but that he _could_ feel someone watching him.

He remained still, and that was when he heard branches breaking to his left.

He turned and caught the glimpse of a dark human figure moving from one tree to the next and then vanishing; as if purposely hiding from sight.

Carefully Breakdown dashed forward— worried that he would miss the human— and grasped the tree like a pole, swung around and found nothing. Just like the boy the human vanished from sight.

Now more confusion was stacked on Breakdown's circuits and he began to feel more agitated and nervous.

He turned briskly when he heard the sound of a terrified cry starting to become muffled, however, just like before, he turned to greet nothing.

Whatever situation he had fallen into, he was beginning to dislike it more and more. It was all excruciating: hearing noises, seeing things that his processer had not come up with yet... feeling the boy's feet kick his seat.,

Maybe it was just his own personality getting to him. Maybe he was just out-doing his best tonight...

Or maybe for once Dead End was wrong. Maybe the metaphysical world that Dragstrip and Wildrider introduced to him through human cinema actually existed. Maybe ghosts really did exist… and maybe he had just trespassed into their realm.

The events that had transpired were defiantly similar to human movies: Vanishing, hearing noises, unexplainable manifestations.

A shudder ran through him. If it was all true… that the human fictitious movies corresponded with what was happening to him, than venturing into the woods was probably the worst thing he could have done.

His suspicions were confirmed when he heard the quiet but audible crunching coming behind him. He turned and spotted something in the distance through the trees.

His purple optics fixed on a human figure, battered with torn robes (possibly the same figure from previous!), about fifty feet from his location. The human collapsed to the ground, landing on its aft. It appeared frightened by him and little did it know how frighten Breakdown was of it. However it wasn't the reason he chose to flee and take his chances back on the road.

Behind crept a humanoid shadow around six feet tall, hunched forward and walking from behind the tree. Walking like a disfigured animal in its view, it stopped, the shape of its head changing to indicate that it was looking in the direction of the human and Breakdown.

Breakdown glanced at the human and in the brief moment that Breakdown took to do so, the shadow seemed to teleport behind the human and position itself in another body stance.

It stood behind the human, it's stance tall and menacing with it's arms spread to the side in an aggressive show... and those invisible optics gouging the hard exterior of his chassis, passed his spark chamber casing and hit him right where it counted.

His spark spun, a sense of cold intimidation blasting through and making his spark spin like one of Vortex's tornados. He knew that he shouldn't fear a human, living or non living, but as he continued to stare in the short moment that seemingly dragged on for hours, Breakdown could sense that the black shadow he was staring at wasn't human... but something considerably darker in nature.

Even though he didn't see any optical sensors he could feel the wrathful and angry orbs of goo upon him in an unbreakable grasp. They continued to stare... and stare... and stare at him with all the malevolent fixation in the world.

He felt something touch the top of his foot, a faint and an unnoticeable for any other Decepticon but Breakdown felt it (or at least he thought he felt something touch him) but it was enough to break the last of his resolve. His fear came down like an avalanche and he couldn't stop his vocalizer from letting out a scream.

Not wanting to remain there a second longer, he turned, transformed and got the hell off of Clinton Road.

* * *

**A/N:** Dead End's chapter is coming along and will hopefully be done soon. :)


	3. Hell's Wishing Well

_**HIGHWAY TO HELL**_

**Part 3**

**"Satan's Camero/ Hell's Wishing Well"**

* * *

Dead End despised this Earth month and he really needed only one reason to — or more appropriate, _three_ reasons.

Like other unrelated things, it was his brother's antics to cause the root of all his distastes with Earth. In particular it was Breakdown disregarding his common sense and allowing Dragstrip and Wildrider to put him through the 'cinematic-traumas' of Halloween.

He had taken a gander at some of the movies that they forced their paranoid brother to watch and they had no effect on him. However the effect it had on Breakdown was most annoying, especially since Breakdown would seek his comfort— being that Motormaster wasn't exactly a shoulder plate he or anyone could lean on.

Year after year since their creation, Dead End was given with the unwanted task of reassuring him no such creatures as the aquatic antagonist from a Lagoon, or the shape-shifting alien species that could resemble anything it assimilated, or that a diseased/deceased person could infect you with it's curse if it managed to bite you, or, Dead End's personal favorite oddity, a tree possessed by a poltergeist could form motor skills and digest small children existed. It was all perverted human 'art'.

Ghost stories seemed to be the preferred genre of horror that they forced Breakdown to watch and it was also Dead End's least favorite debate topic. Mainly because it was so boringly obvious what the answer was; debating was a waste of energy of whatever remainder of his life he still had.

There is not such thing as life after death. You get only one life, why in the name of Victor Sigma would we be granted another one? There are no second chances. Do or die— that's life. Just the thought of it was enough to make Dead End laugh— a rare occasion— and it was only this season he almost did.

Halloween… really just a pointless human tradition. They really had no use for it and the Stunticons would have benefited from never knowing of it's existence.

He couldn't understand why honoring the dead was such an important custom. Their ancestors are dead, why dwell on the fact and not proceed with whatever remains of their bleak human existence? Or better yet, if they were so sure of this next life, why not join them?

He also found another tradition of Halloween also quite comical, a tradition that seemed to _mock_ the dead. The offsprings paraded around their districts collecting energon goodies and then stuffing their glutinous faces with it… purposely forgetting to give some of their collected good to their ancestors as an offering. Dead End took a step back for a moment... maybe the children shared the same opinion as Dead End 'why give them offerings if they can't indulge in them?'

Or maybe the insects were just selfish and didn't care. Oh well, nothing to do about at this point since Dragstrip and Wildrider has already caused the brunt of damage— his brothers are always very good at that. Besides, it was just one Earth solar cycle. He supposed he had no choice but to suffer through it year by year until death granted him to never to again.

Dead End laughed mentally as he continued to roll behind Breakdown and Motormaster in the lead (Dragstrip and Wildrider off on their own side of the ten mile road).

The best he could do was to ignore it and keep his processor on business, which was proving to be rather difficult being in Breakdown's presence. He could tell that he felt uncomfortable on this road, which didn't surprise Dead End (Breakdown felt uncomfortable everywhere he went) and his complaints of how much he wanted to get off the road were becoming repetitive.

He finally went quite and just when Dead End thought he was granted solace, Breakdown managed to break it.

**((Get ****off!))** Roared their irritate Stunticon leader.

**((SORRY!))**Breakdown quipped back, fearing the possibility of lots and lots of pain.

**((Not ****yet ****you're ****not!)) **Motormaster responded.**((If ****you ****dented ****my ****bumper ****I'll ****dent ****something ****of ****yours!))**

**((Relax;****it ****was ****a ****simple ****mistake ****which ****I'm ****sure ****Breakdown ****will ****not ****be ****doing ****again.))**Dead End droned with an indifferent tone from the back of the line.

**((Yeah! ****I ****won't ****make ****anymore ****mistakes****— ****I ****promise!))**Breakdown called, quickly trying to resolve the situation. However in his poor brother's case, that was impossible.

Dead End could identify the sound of Breakdown's tires going out if his very spark depended on it. When he heard the sound of pressurized air forcibly escaping he swerved out of the way to avoid rolling into the asphalt like his accident prone Stunticon. A comrade always, but tonight was not the night he preferred to have his paint scratched— his brothers had caused him enough grief already.

**((Breakdown!))** Motormaster roared, angered annoyance defiently his tone.

Dead End sighed tiredly and transformed, as did his leader, and sauntered over to Breakdown. Immediately he could see that he would be useless unless he was refitted with a functional tire. However, their leader only saw incompetence.

Dead End approached him and bent down to one knee plate, "Are you alright?" he asked.

"No, my leg hurts," replied Breakdown, a small groan leaving him. "No I can transform. Everything's ok!"

Dead End could feel Motormaster's annoyance behind him, permiating into the air like a thick cloud.

Their comms beeped thankfully, halting any unnecessary brutality Motormaster was thinking of inflicting on Breakdown.

**((Ramjet to Motormaster. I have a visual on two Autobots north of your position. Looks like Bumblebee and Trailblazer and I think I saw your buddy Prime a few astro seconds ago.))**

**((We****'****re ****on ****our ****way. ****Motormaster ****out.))**replied the Stunticon leader.

Dead End knew that Breakdown would be too paranoid to change the tire alone in the dark and would require his assistance. It needed to be changed; his teammate couldn't pursue Autobots on his rim. Dead End turned to Motormaster, "We'll catch up shortly and we will be sure to do away with them if they pass this way."

Motormaster stared down at him, his faceplates seeming he have no choice but to grudgingly accept. Dead End knew that Motormaster would use this opportunity as a personal vendetta anyway for the head on collision with Prime. He hated to admit that it was a good thing that Breakdown had a flat tire. Beside's he was in no mood for a chase… he just had himself waxed.

Motormaster transformed, his headlights blaring harshly into their optics. "Get it done quickly!" he barked before he took off.

As soon as he disappeared Dead End set to work, switching to high beams to combat the heavy darkness of the October night.

Just as Dead End was relaxed, focused on his work, Breakdown had to kill his calm and solace mood— a mood that he had been craving for some time.

"Hey, Dead End, do ghosts exist?" asked his curious teammate.

Dead End paused in his work, somewhat taken aback that Breakdown would ask the same question for the 165th time since their creation. "I beg your pardon?"

Breakdown shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, looking as if he was embarrassed. "You know…ghosts. Do you think that stuff exists?"

Dead End raised an eyebridge and assumed his work, he decided to give Breakdown his full opinion on the matter, hoping that a clear explanation would finally cease Breakdown's interest on what he believed; the word _'__no__'_ apparently was not enough for his paranoid comrade.

"If there is such a thing as life after death, it is served as merely a waiting room; a sick perverse torture method until we are eventually and absolutely evaporated from existence. However, that paranormal nonsense is reserved for religious texts and as a comfort for mechs who cannot handle that they are going to die. So no; there are no such things as ghosts."

"But if they were? Like you said first, could they you know… hurt you?" Breakdown asked.

"They don't exist, Breakdown," replied Dead End, tired of the ridiculous conversation.

Breakdown frowned with disappointment. "So they stuff in human movies is not real?"

Dead End sighed, reminded once again why Halloween annoyed him. "Is that where this dreadful conversation is coming from?"

"No," Breakdown replied—a blatant lie.

Dead End sighed. "Have you been watching those seasonal movies with Dragstrip and Wildrider, again?"

"No." Another lie.

"Let me remind you—once again— that those movies are fictional," Dead End tiredly reassured.

"The Blair Bitch Project looked very real," Breakdown replied back with a semi-confident tone.

Dead End rolled his optics, doubting that was the true name of the movie. "It is nothing but a scare tactic."

"But—"

"Nothing more."

"But."

"_No_."

Dead End finished his work and stood up, giving Breakdown a little space. "Give that a try," he said.

Breakdown stood up and gave his leg a small shake, he grimaced slightly but nodded. "Better," Breakdown shrugged.

Dead End let a small smile tug the corner of his mouth. "Good, let's rejoin the group before Motormaster becomes upset. I'm not in the mood for his temper today, which is especially foul tonight."

With that they both transformed. Dead End understood the importance of the mission, guard the only access road to the power-plant that lay for plundering, however for Breakdown's sake and for his own sanity, he wished that Megatron decided to pick another Earth time and his brothers to choose another holiday to torment Breakdown with. Perhaps Christmas.

* * *

Breakdown and Dead End found themselves at a halt when they reached the sharp curve in the road, where Dead End noticed a change in the scenery.

He recalled on their trip earlier on the road that the concrete barriers were intact. So why all of a sudden were they destroyed now?

Dead End couldn't help but sense that it had something to do with his fearless leader and he wasn't surprised that he was right. When they rolled closer, their headlights on full beams, he scanned and saw lying at the bottom of the heap was indeed, Motormaster. What surprised Dead End however was that he appeared unresponsive—an unusual sign for the leader of the Stuntions.

**((Motormaster, are you online?))**

No response.

Dead End transformed and Breakdown followed. Dead End stepped off of the road and landed into the small graveyard of cars that were unable to complete the turn and crashed to their doom. The body of a rusted blue 1969 Mustang crushed under the Strunticon's weight. Breakdown remained on the road, too hesitant to approach his offline leader as if fearing Motormaster would spring to life and attack Breakdown... another cliché he assumed was from one of the movies that he watched.

Metal groaned and glass shattered nosily as he made his way over to Motormaster's form. He seemed intact; his scans showed minimal damage. It was all puzzling. He knew Motormaster had received harder hits yet this one was the only one he could remember that offlined him. Even the collision with Optimus Prime wasn't enough to offline Motormaster.

Suddenly the horn of a yellow Camaro blared by them, making Breakdown jump. Breakdown turned to him, as if questioning what he should do.

"What are you waiting for?" Dead End questioned sternly before turning back to aid Motormaster. Breakdown transformed and chased after the unknown Autobot.

With nothing but the light from his headlights he set to work. He walked to back of Motormaster's trailer, grasped it at each side and pulled. Motormaster's trailer groaned as well as the metal his front was wedged into. Dead End worked himself to the front where the trailer and truck were connected. He wiggled the right side until Motormaster was somewhat free and worked himself over to the next side.

Déjà vu flooded him when he heard the blare of a car go by. His optics turned just in time to see a yellow Camaro fly by on the road.

Dead End's optics squinted in confusion. The Camaro was going the same direction the first time it passed. How did it get by Dead End without him noticing and what was the purpose? Was it trying to draw him out specifically? Dead End ignored it, thinking he had a glitch in his memory banks.

After several more minutes of struggling to free Motormaster with no avail, he collapsed on top of an old 50's red Thunderbird, exhausted.

He grimmaced and activated his comm link. **((Dragstrip, Wildrider. Are you busy? I need assitance.))**

**((Yea, we are busy Deadster. We are_ soooo_ sorry.))** came a sarcastic Dragstrip.

Dead End's optic brows rose. **((Really? Well that is unfortunate. Unfortunate of course for the both of you when Motormaster wakes up and discovers that you two refused to help him because you had more important agendas.**

**((Ugh. Fine. Be right there.)) **

Dead End sighed tiredly as he sat on top of the Thunderbird's roof silently, oddly finally able to find the quiet time he had desired down in the graveyard of cars with his offline Strunticon leader. Hopefully he didn't waken and Dragstrip and Wildrider took their time. His optics eyed the harvest moon above him, it's glow basking him in a white light as well off the other cars inhabiting the surroundings. It was almost peaceful... almost.

Dead End turned when a car horn blared once again.

It was the same yellow Camaro, still traveling in the same direction.

Dead End sighed and activated his comm once again. **((Dead End to Dragstrip.))**

**((Go ahead.))**

**((You two assist Motormaster. I have an Autobot to deal with.)) **Dead End called, walking on the roofs of cars. He turned on his anti-gravity and landed back on the road.

**((Yeah, yeah. You go talk the Autobot to death. We'll take care of the Moto. Dragstrip out.))**

Dead End transformed and took off into the night...

Minutes after he disappeared, the yellow Camaro appeared again following behind Dead End, blared it's horn, passed Dead Man's Curve and thirty-seconds down the road, blew it's tire, swerved and ran into a tree where it disappeared completely.

Leaving the road silent until it repeated it's ghostly residual cycle.

* * *

Dead End could not understand the madness of the Autobot he was chasing. There were no side-path or shortcut on the road that he saw while chasing it that could take it back to the bridge or why it wanted to repeat blaring it's horn at them. Dead End also couldn't recall any Autobot that transformed into the Camaro, unless it was imitating that awful human movie where Bumblebee upgraded his form.

Unless one of the others did, he wasn't sure if he was even sure if he was chasing an Autobot or if he was going on a wild cyber-goose chase after a human. What also bothered him was that he couldn't seem to catch up or get a signature off of it. He had passed by Dragstrip and Wildrider only a couple ago and the denied that they had seen the Camaro. Unless the Camaro doubled back without his knowing there was no way it would have gotten passed Breakdown, Dragstrip, Wildrider and himself.

Dead End came to a bridge where he decided to come to a halt. He backed up and maneuvered himself until he was at the end of the bridge and facing the direction he came, just in case the Camaro had decided to get behind him.

Dead End waited in his vehicular mode, his high-beams on the bridge and the road in front of him; nothing but the hum of his engine and the noise of water from the river in the air.

Minutes passed by one by one with no disturbance, and he took the opportunity to relax while he waited. He turned off his engine and his lights, making sure to watch for signatures both from the front and back.

He sat in the dark in the middle of the road. Silent. Solitude. Perfect... almost perfect.

After twenty-minutes, his scanners detected a heat small signature by the edge of the bridge. It was too faint to be an Autobot had contained no friendly data-patterns of his fellow Decepticons to be one of Soundwave's minions.

Dead End's headlights flashed on to see nothing in front of him. However there was a young Caucasian boy right by his driver side door, peering into his window.

Dead End engine fired up and he rolled backwards, before coming to a screeching halt, alarmed by the speed and how close the human boy managed to get to him.

He scanned and found himself alone once again. However his intuition couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't the case. It was as if he was looking at the world through Breakdown's optics: He was cautious of all his surroundings, alarmed by the possibilities of any abnormalities in the environment and apprehensive to discover what they were.

The boy was startling; he hadn't expected it. Nevertheless he was somewhat curious of how the boy had the courage to come up to him as he did. Certainly the insignia on his hood would have had the child fleeing in terror as they so often did.

Surprise arose in him again when he felt and heard a small taping on the driver side window.

_tap... tap... tap...tap... tap... _It was harsh against his window and he couldn't understand what was causing it— there was no one outside his window. There was nothing to explain it... but he absolutely felt it.

It suddenly stopped, and was followed by something just as startling as the annoying taping.

The boy came from in front of him and approached the hood, looking at something metallic pinched between his fingers. Dead End stood his ground cautiously but overall curious at what the fleshling was doing.

The boy smiled at him, as if trying to be friendly. The boy approached his driver side window again and stared inside for a moment. He lifted his hand and tapped the round metallic object against his window.

_tap... tap... tap..._

Then he stopped and held out his hand, presenting what the object was.

It was a quarter; and the boy was trying to give it to him. Dead End felt a flash of boredom and annoyance run through him. The fleshling is trying to give him a quarter? '_What on earth is going through that moronic flesh creature's mind? I am not interested in your gift.'_

His comm beeped once again. **((Dead End, meet back at the turn. Motormaster's back online and I guess we are out of here for the night!))**

**((Copy))** was Dead End's reply.

Dead End fired his engine and took off, leaving the boy without a response. Dead End watched the boy get engulfed in the darkness of the night and disappear completely from sight.

The quarter dropped to the ground, landing between the lines of the yellow stripes of the road.

The boy nowhere to be found...

* * *

**A/N: **So the reason for the double chapter title is because Dead End's encounter is inspired by two events that happen on Clinton Road and that I couldn't make up my mind. The first envolves a woman who crashed on the road and the other involves folklore about a boy who died swimming. The story goes if you throw a quarter into the river, he will give it back to you.

Also, alot of these chapters are made for creative use so everything I describe about Clinton Road is 100% not accurate. It is just overdramatized for creative purposes. So apologies to the New Jersey residents who have traveled on Clinton Road... I've never been there. Sorry.

Motormaster's chapter will conclude our story... once I post it.

**Happy Halloween all! Hope everyone has a safe and spooky one! :D**


End file.
